Three days later.

Elizabeth sat on the white leather sofa in the penthouse. She scrolled through the digital edition of the New York Post on her phone.

There he was. Dorian Underwood, sitting in a VIP booth at a SoHo club, a blonde model draped over his lap. His smile was lazy and arrogant.

Her phone vibrated, replacing the photo with an incoming call. Kerr Goodwin.

She swiped to answer.

"Get to the estate for dinner tonight," Kerr barked through the speaker. "You've been married three days and your husband is already publicly humiliating you. You're making us look like fools."

Elizabeth stared at the city skyline. "I'll be there." She hung up before he could say another word.

At seven o'clock, her cab pulled up to the wrought-iron gates of the Goodwin estate in Long Island.

She walked through the heavy front doors alone. The air in the house was stale, thick with years of unspoken resentment.

She walked into the dining room. Kerr, Meredith, and Jami were already seated at the long mahogany table. The silence was suffocating.

Jami looked up. A fake, sympathetic pout formed on her lips. "Where's Dorian? Couldn't drag him away from the club?"

Meredith scoffed, slicing her steak with unnecessary force. "What did you expect? A man like that doesn't take a foster system stray seriously."

Elizabeth pulled out a chair and sat down. She picked up her heavy silver fork and knife, her face completely blank. She ignored them.

Her silence hit Meredith like a physical blow. The older woman slammed her hand onto the table. The crystal glasses rattled.

"You ungrateful little bitch," Meredith hissed. "We took you in. We fed you. And you destroy your sister's engagement with your filthy tricks!"

Elizabeth slowly raised her eyes. Her gaze was dead, devoid of any emotion.

"Who put the drugs in my champagne, Meredith?"

The temperature in the room plummeted. Kerr stopped chewing. He turned his head slowly, staring at his wife.

Meredith's face flushed a violent shade of red. Panic flashed in her eyes before anger swallowed it. "You lying whore! You carry the trash genes of whatever junkie left you in the system!"

Jami sniffled loudly, dabbing her dry eyes with a napkin. "Acey and I love each other. You just couldn't stand to see me happy. You had to steal him."

Elizabeth dropped her fork onto the porcelain plate. The sharp clatter made Jami jump.

Elizabeth let out a cold, hollow laugh. "Steal him? Jami, you can keep the garbage. I just took out the recycling."

Jami's face crumpled. She looked at Kerr. "Daddy, make her stop!"

Kerr threw his napkin onto the table. He pointed a thick finger at Elizabeth. "Apologize to your sister right now. You are a disgrace to this family."

Elizabeth pushed her chair back and stood up. She looked at the three of them, feeling nothing but absolute disgust.

"I came here to tell you one thing," Elizabeth said, her voice eerily calm. "I am done. I owe the Goodwin family nothing. Do not call me again."

She picked up her purse from the empty chair next to her.

Meredith shrieked. She grabbed her half-full glass of red wine and hurled the liquid across the table.

Elizabeth twisted her body, but the dark red wine splashed across the side of her black dress. It dripped down the fabric like fresh blood.

Elizabeth stopped. She turned her head slowly and locked eyes with Meredith. The sheer, murderous intent in Elizabeth's stare froze the older woman in her seat.

Elizabeth didn't say a word. She turned on her heel and walked out of the dining room, leaving the toxic rot of the Goodwin family behind her forever.

The heavy front doors of the Goodwin estate slammed shut behind her.

Elizabeth stood on the stone driveway. The cold night air hit her face, cooling the heat radiating from her skin.

She looked down at her dress. The red wine clung to the fabric. She lifted her right hand. When Meredith threw the wine, the base of the crystal glass had clipped her knuckle. A deep cut sliced across her skin. Thick drops of blood welled up and dripped onto the pavement.

She dug into her purse, pulled out a tissue, and pressed it hard against the wound. The sharp sting grounded her. She stared at the crimson stain spreading across the white paper. Good, she thought, her erratic heartbeat finally steadying into a slow, rhythmic thud. This was the absolute last time she would ever bleed for the Goodwin family. The suffocating rage that had nearly choked her at the dinner table evaporated, replaced by a glacier of cold, calculated intent. From now on, they would be the ones bleeding.

She walked down the long driveway and flagged down a passing yellow cab on the main road.

"Downtown," she told the driver. "The Abyss."

The city lights blurred past the window. Her heart rate slowed. The anger morphed into a cold, calculated focus.

Thirty minutes later, the cab pulled up to a narrow, unlit alleyway in the Lower East Side. The neon sign for The Abyss flickered halfway down the brick wall.

Elizabeth stepped out of the cab. Her heels clicked against the damp asphalt.

"Well, well. Look what the trash dragged in."

Elizabeth stopped.

Acey Cantu leaned against the hood of a bright red Ferrari parked at the mouth of the alley. He held a lit cigarette between his fingers. The smell of cheap alcohol rolled off him in waves.

He pushed off the car and stumbled toward her, blocking her path.

Acey's bloodshot eyes dragged up and down her body. He looked at the wine stain, then at the bloody tissue wrapped around her hand. He let out a harsh, ugly laugh.

"Look at you," Acey sneered. "Thrown out like the stray dog you are. Even Dorian doesn't want to touch you."

Elizabeth stared at him. Her jaw locked. "Move, Acey."

The dismissal in her voice snapped his fragile ego. Acey flicked his cigarette at her feet. He lunged forward, reaching out to grab her shoulder. "You think you're better than me, you little whore?"

Elizabeth didn't step back. The deadpan mask vanished. Growing up as a stray in the foster system had taught her one very specific lesson: you either learned how to use a larger opponent's momentum against them, or you ended up in the hospital. She had spent years perfecting the art of dropping drunken, heavy-handed men. Pure, violent instinct took over.

As his hand closed in, she shifted her weight. She grabbed his wrist with her good hand, twisted her body, and locked his arm over her shoulder.

She dropped her hips and pulled.

Acey's one hundred and eighty pounds went airborne.

With a sickening thud, his back slammed into the unforgiving asphalt. All the air left his lungs in a violent rush. He curled into a fetal position, clutching his ribs, a pathetic wheeze escaping his throat.

Elizabeth stood over him. She brushed a speck of dust off her shoulder. A cruel, mocking smile touched her lips.

She leaned down, her voice a soft, deadly whisper. "You couldn't even last three seconds in bed, Acey. What made you think you could last three seconds in a fight?"

Acey's face turned purple. He opened his mouth, but only a strangled gasp came out. His eyes bulged with absolute humiliation.

From the deep shadows of the alley, the slow, rhythmic sound of clapping echoed off the brick walls.

Elizabeth whipped her head around, her muscles tensing for another fight.

Dorian Underwood stepped out of the darkness. "My security detail mentioned you left the dinner early, and that a rather pathetic red Ferrari was tailing your cab," Dorian said, his footsteps slow and deliberate. "I was curious to see what he thought he was going to accomplish."

The flickering streetlamp caught the sharp angles of Dorian's face. He wore a long black cashmere coat, his hands buried deep in the pockets. The signature, mocking smirk played on his lips.

He walked toward them, his eyes fixed on Elizabeth. There was a dangerous spark of genuine admiration in his dark gaze. He had expected a victim. He found a predator.

Elizabeth straightened her spine. She let her hands drop to her sides, forcing her breathing to slow.

Dorian stopped a few feet away. He looked down at Acey, who was still writhing on the ground like a crushed insect.

Dorian clicked his tongue. "Osteoporosis hitting you early, Acey? You look ridiculous down there."

Acey looked up. Terror flashed in his eyes, quickly buried under a wave of humiliated rage. He tried to push himself up, but his arm gave out, and he collapsed back onto the pavement with a sharp cry.

Dorian ignored him. He stepped closer to Elizabeth. Without asking, he reached out and grabbed her right wrist.

His large, warm fingers wrapped around her skin. He pulled her hand up, his eyes dropping to the blood soaking through the tissue. The smirk vanished from his face. His jaw tighted.

"Who did this?" Dorian's voice was a low, lethal rumble.

Elizabeth pulled her hand back, breaking his grip. "A rabid dog at the Goodwin house."

Dorian let out a dark chuckle. He turned his head slowly, looking back down at Acey. The air around him seemed to drop ten degrees.

"Listen to me very carefully, Acey," Dorian said, his voice soft but laced with pure malice. "I enjoyed the show tonight. But if you ever come near my wife again, I will break the other arm myself. Do you understand?"

Acey scrambled backward like a crab. He scrambled to his feet, clutching his chest, and threw himself into the driver's seat of the Ferrari. The engine roared to life, and the tires squealed as the car tore out of the alley.

Elizabeth watched the taillights disappear. She turned toward the entrance of the bar.

Dorian stepped sideways, his massive frame blocking the neon light. He trapped her in his shadow.

He looked down at her. "I have to admit, I didn't expect you to flip a man Acey's size over your shoulder with one good hand."

Elizabeth tilted her chin up, meeting his gaze. "Are you worried I'll throw you over my shoulder next?"

Dorian laughed. The deep vibration hit her chest. He leaned in, his face inches from hers. The smell of mint and expensive cologne wrapped around her.

"I'm looking forward to seeing you try," he whispered, his voice dropping to a rough purr. "Preferably in bed."

Elizabeth's breath hitched, but she didn't back down. "I hope you have more stamina than your cousin."

Dorian's eyes darkened instantly. The teasing vanished, replaced by a heavy, consuming heat.

He stepped back, adjusting the collar of his coat, pulling the mask of the untouchable billionaire back into place.

"Since we are effectively partners in crime," Dorian said, his tone entirely business, "we need to make it ironclad. Meet me at City Hall tomorrow at nine. We're signing the papers."